singillatim | there'll be oats in the water

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there'll be oats in the water

JULY 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: REDUX: A storm finally arrives, and with it — Enola extends her hand to help the Interlopers once more, granting them new abilities.

PROMPT TWO — PENSIVE LOOKOUT: With the Forest Talker efforts focused on sabotaging hunting efforts, Interlopers can attempt to explore the Pensive Lookout Tower, where they can uncover secrets from the diary of Sam Bouchard — the former firewatch worker of the summer of 2014.

PROMPT THREE — A PEEK INSIDE: A group of Interlopers get their hands on one of the Forest Talkers in search of answers — and get a little more than they bargained for.

THE AURORA: REDUX

WHEN: Mid-month, for three days.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural/extreme weather; lightning storms; potentially disturbing dreams; dreams of being trapped in ice; dreams of animal death; dreams of the death of loved ones.

July brings warmer weather. The fog has lifted, and the daylight returned — but an odd kind of pressure lingers in the air, the kind that feels similar with oncoming storms but something still feels off about it all. Measurements and readings are erratic, with them often making little sense. It’s hard to predict just what might be coming, but sure enough something is coming.

Hold on a little longer, Enola told you. A storm is coming.

It comes quickly, the gathering of storm clouds. At first, it looks as if a kind of snowstorm is moving in, but there’s something else at play here. Within the grey, cloudy skies, there is a tell-tale sound of an Aurora mixed within those clouds.

And with it, in amongst the dark, the swirling colours. Greens, pinks and purples weaving through the clouds, almost mesmerising to watch. The air is alive with sound: static noise, cracks and pops: a storm and the Aurora mixed into one. For those who’ve been here long enough, it’s a worrying, unnerving sight. The storm rumbles with the low roar of distant thunder, growing ever closer. The electronics of the world begin to come alive, and in the static of it all — you begin to hear Enola’s voice even clearer than before.

After so much darkness, now there is so much light. A lightning storm — aurora colours mingling with the grey clouds, punctured with crackles of lightning. Something powerful and strange — flash forking across the skies, followed by booms of thunder.

The storm lasts three days, and even though her voice is soft — you hear it over all the noise, nestled gently in your ear.

“You're still here. It means something. This isn’t the end, I refuse to let it be the end. It can’t win. You won’t go into the Dark.” Enola tells you. ”I will make you more than what you are, more than what was stolen from you. This place will not be your end. I have to try. We have to try. Together. I showed some of you, once. I’ll show you again.”

She tells you to sleep. For some, they recognise this and realise what may end up happening. For others it feels like going out on a limb. But you sleep, and perhaps a dream may come to you.

COLD FUSION: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of a great hall of ice: as if it had been carved into some great ridge of it. You walk through it, marvelling at the beauty of it — a blue gloom, echoing with each of your footsteps. But as you take one particular step, the ground cracks and collapses beneath you, sending you into dark, frozen waters. In seconds, the water freezes around you, encompassing you in thick ice, your entire body trapped within it. The coldness burns you, and you are stuck there — frozen in agony. The pain is immeasurable, your entire body crushed and searing from the ice. There is no escape, no reprieve.

A voice speaks to you, perhaps it is the voice of a stranger, perhaps it is the voice of someone you know: Do you know how you survive the cold?’ They ask you. You do not know, and you wait for the answer: ‘You become colder than it.

Your eyes close. You believe those words, you do. You must become colder than the cold itself. And so you will. Your breathing slows, your heart slows and the cold… it stops hurting, it doesn’t burn. The ice around you begins the crack.

When you awaken the first thing you realise is despite the temperature, you are completely cosy and warmed. You do not feel the slightest chill. It is perhaps only once you are around other than you truly notice the difference to you — you are cold to the touch, lacking the heat you once had. An understanding comes: you are at one with the cold, it will not beat you, it will not cause you agony. Winter is at peace within you: perfect Cold Fusion.

MOON TOUCHED: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of running through the silent woods at night. The moon is full above you, the air is calm and still. Hunger draws you forward, everything is so sharp and vivid in your senses, even in this dreamscape. You hear the crispness of the snow beneath your feet, smell the scent of the pines on the air, feel how warm you are against the coldness around you.

The snuffling of a rabbit catches your attention, and you swiftly leap after it, jaws opening and closing around its neck as you capture it. You bite down hard, feeling the crunch of its bones as they break, the sweet coppery taste of blood filling your mouth and nose. You lift your head towards the stars, blood on your tongue. You realise you are not a person at all, but a beast on all fours: a wolf, content and filling your belly with meat.

You wonder, for a brief moment: were you ever a person at all?

You do not know the answer to the question. You do not seem to worry about such a thing but there’s a flash of warning on the air. Something you cannot quite place, but you know that you should not forget it.

When you awaken, you feel… different, somehow. Everything seems a little sharper, as if the world around you had been dull, or behind some pane of frosted glass. With it comes a strange balance of calmness and chaos, tameness and wildness, fear and bravery. You find yourself looking for the moon in the skies and when you finally find it, it hits you — this is what it means to be Moon Touched.

INTERLOPER’S SACRIFICE: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape and then fade into nothing. You dream of kneeling in a darkened, charred wood. You are not alone. In this dreamscape, you dream of a loss, or a time you have never felt more helpless in your life. Perhaps it is when someone you knew died before you, or you stood as someone was sick and injured and you were unable to do a thing. As you kneel, they are there with you: sick or dying or even dead in your arms. You cannot do anything but hold them, and the helplessness is overwhelming.

You look up and a woman in furs stands before you, her expression solemn. Enola herself. There are tears in her eyes, as if she shares the very pain you do: the loss, the grief, the hopelessness, the powerlessness. She approaches you and lowers herself to kneel in front of you and your companion, bracing your shoulders for a long, lingering moment. There are no words, none from neither of you.

Enola shifts slightly, leans forwards. She kisses your forehead, much like when a parent kisses their child: sweet and tender.

And then you feel it, as if you are set alight: an agonising pain that encompasses you whole — so painful you cannot even open your mouth to scream. You feel yourself growing weak, the corners of your vision blurring into black. It feels as if you might die from the pain, and you want for it to stop but it doesn’t.

Enola pulls away and you gasp, slumping in exhaustion, but still alive, somehow. You stare at her, sweating and clamouring for breath, and she offers you a sad smile. Never again. you feel the words inside of you. This time, it will be different. Better.

When you awaken, you can still feel the kiss upon your forehead — enough to make your fingers reach up to touch it, your entire body tingling a little. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers, reminding you as you find yourself looking down at your hands: never again. Never again, you tell yourself and the comprehension comes to you: you have chosen. This is what it means to be: this is your sacrifice. The Interloper’s Sacrifice.

NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: Pensive Lookout Tower, Lakeside.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; possible fall injuries/treacherous climbs; themes of terror; themes of diminished sanity; themes of starvation.

The Old Hunting Lodge is located in the southern-most area of Lakeside, and its surrounding area is generally considered no-go territory with the presence of the Forest Talkers. As June turned into July, the Forest Talker’s presence in the wilds of Lakeside has begun to grow again — but their efforts appear to be focused on sabotaging the efforts of Interlopers, Methuselah and Young Bill in hunting fresh game. If anything, it could mean that with attentions drawn away — perhaps the braver sorts of the Interlopers can explore the area a little more fully.

There’s little in terms of buildings of interest in this area. The wilderness is thick and deep here. Perhaps the odd ransacked cabin once belonging to a local may be stumbled across — its contents picked clean, presumably by the Forest Talkers. Many of these buildings will be completely inhabitable due to the damage done — with some cabins being razed to the ground.

However, on higher ground, with a good hike to access it, stands a watch tower.

These lookout towers could mean a number of things: a chance to access supplies that may have otherwise been forgotten about due to the hike to get up there, a better view of the surrounding area, and the possibility of a radio — given the sign of a radio transmitter that can be found blinking a feeble red on Aurora nights.

With the snow on the ground it’s a little more treacherous, but given the circumstances, anything’s worth a shot, right? Those who attempt the hike may fall foul to slips and trips along the steep slow to reach the tower, and should take care in the ascent. Even with the warmth of July, it’s difficult. One might hope this might make the place a decent outpost, if you think about it. Somewhere hard to reach, and with such a vantage point.

Reaching the tower and climbing it to its interior will it largely intact but a mess. Someone has lived here for some time. Interlopers will find no food here, but some useful tools that belonged to the lookout: binoculars, maps, a compass, an alidade. There is even a radio sat upon a desk, and with it — a journal.

The journal, Interlopers will find, belonged to a man named Sam Bouchard — the firewatcher for the season during the previous year, detailing the months of his arrival and ending in November last year. It is unknown what happened to Sam, but his journal will perhaps offer some insight and even some information.

A PEEK INSIDE

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: The Gas Station, Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of kidnapping; imprisonment; self-starvation; blood/minor injuries; psychological torment, supernatural abilities.

The Forest Talkers have a long history in the Northern Territories, long before Interlopers started arriving in Milton. Champions of nature, they have sought to put an end to the industries and tourism-related expansions in the Lakeside area, first peacefully and then… not-so-peacefully. But with the events known as the ‘The Flare’ last year, Forest Talkers have been… acting peculiarly, disturbingly, aggressively.

There are plenty of questions to be asked. But the Forest Talkers are difficult to communicate with. Previous attempts have ended up in aggression or being ignored entirely. And now, even with the events of the previous month coming to an end — game remains difficult to find, and Forest Talkers are keen on sabotaging any attempts of hunting made by Interlopers, Young Bill or Methuselah. And more importantly: what is the yawning grave?

It starts as mutterings between tired and disgruntled Interlopers. They need answers, and there’s got to be a way in trying to get some. They’re hungry and exhausted and so many of their numbers are now dead. Those mutterings grow, and soon enough a plan is put into place. A small group of Interlopers embark into Lakeside and wait.

Soon enough, it bears fruit. A man is captured, bound and blindfolded — quietly and secretly brought back to Milton to be held up in the unused Gas Station to be questioned. It is not the leader, but surely one of them is better than no one at all. He is injured, but not enough to kill him. It will prove challenging in trying to get answers out of him, but soon enough the Interlopers will get him to talk.

News of the Forest Talker in their midst will inevitably spread, as most things do in small communities. Secrets are hard to guard. It won’t be just those behind the kidnapping who might end up coming across the man being held in the Gas Station.

Anyone who goes to investigate will find the man sat on the floor in quiet contemplation. Attempts of conversation will be met with long, silent stares — holding your gaze for an uncomfortably long time. He will spurn any gestures of kindness: spit on the floor at Interloper’s feet, refuse any food offered — as if the man has chosen to starve himself in protest. He says nothing, at first.

But after some time, he will look into an Interloper’s eyes and utter something. A word. A phrase. It may be a name, or a place. It may be a specific thing an Interloper has read, or been spoken to by someone. Something that holds meaning to the Interloper. It may be the name of a loved one from home, or the last words ever spoken to you by a friend. Something the man shouldn’t know.

Whatever it is that he speaks to you, it is not something that will fill you with hope or fondness to remember — but quite the opposite. A reminder of something painful, of a loss, or some other thing that caused you misery. As if he had reached right inside your mind and plucked some painful part of your past from you and spoken it to the wind.

The Forest Talker smiles, and will say nothing else. The damage has already been done.

FAQs

THE AURORA: REDUX

1. The next three Aurora Feats are unlocked! Please see the following page for more information.

2. Aurora Feats are completely optional.

3. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Feat. The only time this is available is this month. After July, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.

4. This Aurora/storm will last a full three days, darkening the skies almost to night.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

1. Interlopers who dwell in the lookout for the next Aurora will find the radio works, albeit poorly. They will be able to pick up the same broken morse code message.

2. There are no signs of blood/injury that befell Sam in the lookout. It appears he made good on what he wrote on in his journal and attempted to leave to get to Silverpoint.

A PEEK INSIDE

1. While only a small number was involved in the kidnapping itself, anyone can discover the fact there's a Forest Talker being held in Milton.

2. In terms of appearance, the Forest Talker is very much your typical average white guy. Bearded, weathered by the cold, someone who's lived several years without much in the way of comforts or luxuries.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He picks up the mug, feeling strange warmth against his hands, and allows himself to enjoy it on his joints for a moment until -

Well, the truth will out.

"He is lost," he agrees. "I can hope that he somehow made it out." He looks over to the maps. "Come and have this soup. You made it, you should enjoy it." And he wants to inspect the compass a little longer and he really can't while the Doctor is being very distracting over those maps.

"Well — suppose these aren't going anywhere," he smiles softly, patting the maps a little, settling the pencil on his ear, and then moving closer to Thomas, to the mugs he's set down. When he reaches for his, he clings to it between his hands, letting it warm him down to his bones, and he smiles softly before sipping at it.

He makes a face, squinting a bit, examining the flavor, sipping at it again. "Saved by the broth, I think," he notes with a soft laugh.

"I certainly have had worse," he says, smiling over at him, suddenly a little bashful here in this damn lookout tower. He takes another small sip, using it to warm himself as much as he is to nourish himself. Just because he can overcome the cold doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy being warm.

"I don't think I want to eat anything out of a tin again in my life," he mutters. He still doesn't know that it was the lead that did it. That the tins were contaminated, and the scurvy wasn't the only thing that ate at his bones.

But he does know that he's eaten better on this island than he has in years, even if that means he hasn't eaten anything.

He smiles back at him, his expression softening. "No, no, you wouldn't, would you." Tins. It's a thought that lingers in his mind, he can't help it, of course. Just knowing what happened to Thomas — he tucks it away for now. He only wants to think about having warm soup together. It's not easy getting fresh ingredients here, fluctuating wildly between just barely enough or not enough at all, but he wants to make fresh things for Thomas as much as he possibly can. He wants to care for him.

"After this, before we settle in, I'm running back down out there to grab some willow bark. I can make a tea, it should help your joints a bit more to sleep tonight."

If there is any group of people able to survive this place, everything it throws at them, it's the Terrors (and Goodsir.) They have always been able to withstand anything and everything the Arctic threw at them, until, of course, they couldn't any longer. But it was years, not months, not weeks, that wore them down.

At least there is game here. Fish. Rabbit. A fledgling greenhouse.

But Thomas doesn't mind saying yes. He let Crozier care for him once and it - ended in disaster, of course. That won't happen again, he tells himself. It can't. It simply can't.

"There isn't much that can be done for them, I'm afraid. But - I won't stop you from it."

"No cure, I know, I know. No dramatic reversal of the damage that's been done, but it should help you sleep more soundly. If it does, it's worth it."

The warmth from the soup doesn't linger nearly long enough, but he takes his time sipping it, staying near Thomas. He doesn't want to wait too long, though, knowing he must be exhausted. So he sips the last of the soup quickly, setting the cup down and reaching out to pat Thomas' shoulder a moment, lingering.

"Now, don't throw any wild parties up here while I'm gone. At least not without me! Back in a flash, of course."

Thomas takes his hand briefly, squeezing it once in his newfound courage.

"Be careful," he tells him firmly, like a command. "I was made Lieutenant in the field, you know. So. That's an order, sir. Don't get yourself hurt."

Especially with the injury Thomas gave him.

There is, however, an intensity to his words. It's a small thing, but he does not want to think of him harmed in any way.

"Lieutenant," he smiles brightly, squeezing his hand in return. "Lieutenant Thomas Jopson. Suits you. I'll be fine, though, promise."

He takes it seriously, he does. Not necessarily for his own sake, but for Thomas'. Then he goes to grab Thomas' pack, shifting it onto his shoulder. "Borrowing this."

That smile still on his face, he gives him a little salute before he leaves. Perhaps somewhat predictably, the Doctor tends to lose track of time, easily distracted, wandering this way and that. He manages a modest amount of the bark he was after, but he'd been hoping to find something else...edible berries or something sweet to enjoy. The light wanes, though, and he realizes he ought to head back. His side is aching more by now, too, so he needs to sit and rest, he knows, much as he doesn't want to admit it. When he gets back inside, he's quick to announce himself.

"Missed me? Of course you did," he grins, slightly breathless, cheeks red with the cold as he quickly shuts the door.

Thomas laughs as he bustles about and honestly doesn't expect him to return any time soon. He keeps himself busy in the tower, finding the binoculars and fiddling with them for a while, marveling at how well they work.

The maps are next and he reads them over before scrubbing out the mugs. Anything to keep him from now anxiously looking out the windows, waiting and trying not to fret as the day wanes.

That's exhausting after all he's been through, though, so he's resting on the small bed when the Doctor pops up from the ladder. Startled, he laughs, standing to greet him, crossing the room in just a few steps to pull him into an embrace.

He's quick to react and hold onto Thomas in return, resting one hand on the back of his head briefly. It's a feeling he could very easily get used to, being greeted like this. He doesn't realize he took perhaps a bit longer coming back, but he's quick to joke, "I keep hoping I'll find a tree with bits of chocolate growing from its branches."

Obviously it couldn't be possible, but it's a fine dream, he thinks.

"I got what I needed, though, and then some. You go lay back down and I'll make the tea."

He holds onto him for half a second more, then pulls away to walk back to the bed as directed. It feels much too good to sit and rest and simply exist, rather than worry and fret.

And tea sounds heavenly.

"I don't think I have ever had chocolate," he admits. Smelled it. Served it. Never tasted.

"What else did you find?"

"Pine needles! Loads of them. We can make tea with that, too." The pine needles, especially, will be important for boosting vitamin C. Of course, he can't help thinking of chocolate — chocolate cake. Chocolate anything, really, that he could share with Thomas. Sipping chocolate on a cold day. There's no way to get close to it here, so naturally his mind wanders back to the TARDIS and to adventures far beyond, places he could show him that he could scarcely conjure in his mind.

He sets to work making the willow bark tea for now, though, getting water boiling, rubbing his hands together to warm them closer to the heat of the stove.

"Chocolate is...something magical, something to show you one day." It, once again, slips out, these promises he has no business doling out. He's clumsy and led by sentimentality too much sometimes. Just as much, he can be overly practical, with no discernable pattern.

There is always hope. Always some form of it that comes with the work. Exploring, hoping for new sights and sounds and experiences - that's the life Thomas wants. So he hopes. And he's happy to enjoy the warmth that hope brings.

"Is like that," he assures him, letting him commit to it. He folds his hands over his stomach, watching him out of the corner of his eyes, pretending like he isn't trying to keep down the butterflies in his stomach.

He lets the bark steep a good long while to infuse the water well enough, and his own mind is turning over an abundance of thoughts even if he's sometimes not the best at actually sharing those aloud. He is daft and strange and even now there are things he still doesn't understand about human sentimentality, connections, feelings. He knows that Thomas has become very important to him; everyone is important to him, yes, but it's different enough with Thomas that even his own often clueless mind can comprehend that difference. Even if he doesn't know...where to begin with addressing any of it.

The tea's ready, though, and it's a pleasant distraction. He pours it into two cups, bringing it over and settling himself on the edge of the bed, reaching out for a moment briefly to sweep some hair back from Thomas' brow before handing one of the cups over.

"This will taste absolutely awful, but will help a bit, I hope."

He's made a bit for himself, to take the edge off that pain in his side. A good night's rest should help, too, for both of them. But it's more important to him that Thomas takes the small bed.

Thomas does understand sentimentality, but he doesn't expect the Doctor to know a damn thing. He doesn't even know what he wants out if this, save someone to see him and be happy to be around him.

He smiles at the touch to his forehead and he sits up, accepting the tea with a laugh.

"Ah, I'm sure I have had worse. But this is - nice. And warm. I think that means more."

He moves over. "You can sit here. It is likely more comfortable."

Most of the Doctor's life has been clinging tightly to one friend and the next, after they leave, after he inevitably loses them in some way. He always tells himself he'll just be alone the next time, that it's better, and that never lasts long. In the end, he really can't stand to be alone at all. He pulls people into his orbit because he needs them and then he can't bear to lose them, and he wants to make them happy. He wants to make Thomas happy.

He can register that while he has absolutely cared deeply for all of his friends, there are some that were closer, that he wanted to hold onto tighter, that he might have considered fixing himself to, but knowing of the inevitable pain has always held him back from that one step forward. Touches, closeness, even a kiss — that's safe. That's all this is, right, a bit of closeness to another person? Nothing more, nothing complicated, no reason to think at length on those unexamined feelings beneath the surface. Yes, that's absolutely it. Simple! And being near him, well, the Doctor has little sense of personal space or boundaries, so the moment the invitation is given, he thinks nothing of sitting closer.

"If I nod off and you need more space, you have my full permission to shove me away. What's a little trip to the floor, gets the blood going," he teases, sipping at the tea.

Thomas practically rolls his eyes at that, but he's too focused on the tea. It isn't very good, but it is warm and he feels that warmth throughout his entire body.

It's nice to simply exist right now, and he's not going to give that up.

Thomas is steady. He's always been steady. He's the one that everyone relies on. He's the rock that anchors the ship and every man on it. He's never taken a thing for himself, ever, in his life, save the small romances here and there that never last because they're never meant to.

He doesn't think beyond the next moment when it comes to this, but he does cherish it while he has it.

The Doctor sits and Thomas leans, enjoying the sturdy company beside him. "Ah, but you might spill your tea and you will be forced to start over."

"And try to replicate this masterpiece? Perish the thought. It's like lightning in a bottle." He swirls his mug a bit, smirking a little to himself.

There's still so much to learn about Thomas and he wants to, very much. He wants to know him better. But there's enough in his nature to draw him closer to him, enough that he thinks he has a sense of how much he's given to others, how much he's given of himself. It's important to him to give as much to him as he can. He doesn't know what that looks like or what it means but he just knows that knowing him now, knowing him more, being able to care for him in some way, it means more than he knows how to say.

"Do you need more of the warm compresses?"

'Need' is such a difficult question for him. There's much that goes into it right now. Does he need them? No. But he would very much like them.

However, that would mean the Doctor will get up and walk away, and Thomas really wants him to stay. To sit for more than five goddamn seconds, like he did before.

"Would it make you feel better to do so?" he wonders, trying to find a way out of this predicament. With a smile. A very innocent one.

He downs the last sip of his tea and he mulls this over, as though it were a question in need of some deep consideration. That smile doesn't escape his notice, of course, so it's like a spark lighting up his playfulness. Setting the now empty mug aside, he tilts his chin up a little, squinting, deep in thought clearly.

"Well, easy answer to start — anything that makes you feel better automatically makes me feel better. But it occurs to me we're sitting quite close and I've neglected to mention you're really lovely to sit beside. There isn't a single gap between us, actually, come to think of it, yet I don't feel overly smothered. It's comfortable, enough that I'm reluctant to move. Sturdy shoulders, yet there's a softness there, too. Like you'd make a good pillow," he smiles, giving this a deep analysis, apparently. "I don't want you hurting, though, if I can help it."

Perhaps there's a way to take his mind off it, he thinks, reaching out for a moment to hold his hand.

He laughs, looking down, utterly charmed, but unwilling to let himself lose his cool.

"Ah," he says, taking his hand. "Is there a thought that crosses your mind that does not also cross your lips?" he wonders. The Doctor seems so content to say anything and everything that comes into his head. Thomas admires that in his own way. He admires the man who has no fear to speak.

"I should hope not!" He is, though, at least half-aware that his tendency towards speaking with ease and rambling as he does isn't always well met by others, but he remains open nonetheless. It's only the more personal things about himself that he holds closer, that are harder to bring to the surface. That, and deeper emotions.

"Moments pass by in a blink. People should say things, people should know things. Little moments...all the stories that make up a life. It's worth hearing, or at least, I think that of others." He turns over Thomas' hand, and similar to some of the pressure he'd applied to his knee joints, he now applies to the major joints of his wrist, pressing in a way that he hopes might soothe any aches. "Well — perhaps knowing that a quarter of the motor cortex in the brain is devoted to the muscles of the hands isn't the most pertinent thing you could ever know, but now you do!"

Edited 2024-07-25 00:42 (UTC)

Thomas nods, letting him turn his hand over. He doesn't say anything, though. Instead, he leans over and kisses him again, hoping to effectively quiet him that way. He prides himself on being able to quiet down a racing mind. This isn't his normal method of doing so, but he's finding that it's his favorite.

He's never understood the urge to speak so freely, even though he has a thousand thoughts in his head. And the Doctor is very good at saying so much without actually saying anything at all.

Thomas is happy enough to say more with fewer words.

So much of the time, he talks and talks to fill the void in his own mind, as though slowing down or settling might force him to just...be. He doesn't know how, exactly, he doesn't let himself, but then Thomas is kissing him again and he's kissing him back.

Maybe there's something to this.

This time, he doesn't struggle quite as much for what to do with his hands, settling for wrapping his fingers around Thomas' now. There is a part of him that fears being lost to this, but then he's always thinking too far ahead. He forces himself just to think about Thomas, and kissing him. Aesthetically pleasing and well-proportioned lips. Soft lips. Good lips? Yes, actually, they are good lips. Objectively speaking. On the whole spectrum of kisses in the Doctor's shaky experience, if he were calculating the speed in combination with the angle of motion, the Doctor would most adamantly confirm the man in front of him has somehow managed the most perfect velocity in his approach. The kiss is neither too fast, nor too slow, nor too...too much anything. In his time, he's yet to attempt measuring kisses in calculable terms, but this does give him something to ponder.

Though he's not entirely sure why he would ponder it beyond this moment? The notion flusters him slightly. But not in a bad way.

Thomas' eyes close so he can focus just on this moment. He is very good at that. Of course, his mind tends to wander, but only because he wants to do this right. He reaches up with his free hand, fingers still cold, and gently brushes against the back of the Doctor's neck, into that ridiculous hair.

He doesn't think about the trek back or the strange place they are now. He thinks about this moment, here, with no one else around him but this man who makes him feel light and silly.

He breaks apart and gently rests his forehead against the others'.

"If this is the only way to get you to stop talking..."

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